Monday, May 27, 2013

In 111 days, I’ll be in Italy. Between now and then, with the
help of the World Wide Web, I’m teaching myself Italian. From “I haven’t done
anything wrong” to “May I have another nectarine?” to “What is that thing in
your right hand?” my online tutorials have placed me on the fast track to marginal
competence.

While passing through a traditionally Italian neighborhood
yesterday, I was poised and ready to practice my blossoming language skills. I spotted
a caffe, opened the door, and the four
or five men sitting in the middle of the smoky room abruptly brought their boisterous
chatter to a standstill. They were the only people there and the vibe was very
invitation-only.

I ordered a cappuccino. The dude who was the first to jump up
went to work behind the bar. His amici
resumed talking and I couldn’t understand one word.

I expected my drink to come in a take-out cup, but my host
poured his delicately prepared mixture into a glass mug. By then, the rest of
his crew had moved their conversation to a table outside. At one point, the
most severe-looking member of the bunch stood up and peered at me through the window.
As he saw, I was making myself comfortable on a barstool, the cappuccino in my
right hand and a lit-up cigarette in my left hand. Not long after I had taken my
opening sip, the host carried over a pack of Marlboros, a lighter, and a tiny Styrofoam
cup for the ashes, setting it all down next to my drink. When in Roma.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Ohio. And you’re from Italy?” I asked.

“No. Kosovo.”

That explained his confused expression when I grazie mille-ed him for the coffee. He was
now traveling back and forth, in and out, from me to his boys. On one of his
trips back inside, he got right up in my face to ask how I was feeling.

I felt 19 again. Not counting what may have gone on during a
couple of after-dark escapades in the East Village this past decade, I haven’t casually
smoked since one semester in college. I never fully inhaled, and many years
after we graduated a friend revealed that everyone hated giving me cigarettes
because I wasted them.

My handsome host, who speaks less Italian than I do, watched
me closely enough to tell that I still puff like a poseur. He didn’t seem to
mind.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Someone threw a Chobani out the window,
like a water balloon. A flavored one, possibly Black Cherry. If I had crossed
that section of the sidewalk five seconds later, it could have hit me. If I had
looked up eight seconds earlier I would have held out both hands and caught it,
carried it home, and eaten it for dessert. In the past eighteen months, I’ve made
many dietary adjustments and Greek yogurt has become a special staple.

In the past eighteen months, my vision
has gradually, somewhat astoundingly, improved. When my mom used to lecture me
about how sticking to a predominantly natural-foods routine can transform the body,
mind, and mood, I rolled my (frailer?) eyes.I
still went in for an eye exam the other afternoon because my insurance covered
it, I had nothing better to do, and I have a weakness for the letter-reading
drill, which I presumably aced this time around. If there’s enough caffeine in
me, I could sit upright in that chair, guessing/shouting out the tiniest rows
of letters for up to an hour. P K L
Y R G : I can read all of this. Can you?On
the mind-transformation front, my skull isn’t doing any shrinking. The new guy
behind the optometry-office counter said the prescription reading glasses I’ve
had for more than two years, but haven’t needed to wear in almost one year, are
freakishly small for my head. “Child-size,” he murmured. I never noticed and nobody
else has pointed anything out. He said another pair of frames I tried on made
me look like I belonged on Star Trek.
The next time I go important-clothes shopping, who better to tag along?

Monday, May 13, 2013

3. Is the coffee, including what’s served at local chapters of national-chain eateries, weaker in rural areas? I have had my suspicions for three or four years and now call for a special committee to investigate.

4. I would give up guacamole for the opportunity to become a farmer. What I may lack in experience, I make up for in terms of good intentions. I’ll need a farm husband who (among other duties) will screen my visitors and have a hot breakfast waiting for me as soon as I wake up, ready to dive into the workday, between 10 and 11 a.m. each morning.

5. The uppermost points of mountain ranges are unlevel. Even that high in the sky, nothing is completely equal at once. One of the shorter trees might rise past those that currently tower over it, and then another smaller tree might later rise above that one. In the race to the top, there are no finish lines.

Monday, May 6, 2013

An innocent one, who has never seen my
apartment or lived in a city, asked whether I have my own balcony. I do, only
it’s more commonly referred to as a “fire escape.” When I’m home alone between
sunrise and sunset, I spend much of my time at my desk or on my bed, the two command
centers, looking out onto it. I’m looking at, through, and over it right now,
wishing someone would spray-paint a colorful mural on the walls of bricks it
faces.

The next time my super makes a house
call, I need to ask him how to safely unlatch and roll back the complicated-looking
window gate that separates my inside from the outside. I could take a folding chair
out there, with a crossword puzzle and some lemonade, to feed the birds and sit
four feet closer to the bare brick walls. I see room for two people and a small
end table.

When I lived elsewhere and came into the
city for job interviews, I stayed with a friend or a cousin. One weekday
morning, hours after my hostess left for work, I looked out a window and watched
a young man/old boy in a long coat crouching on his fire escape, a screenless open
window behind him, smoking a cigarette, lost in thought. He seemed like an on-the-up
local musician, a front man, emotionally prepping for a rehearsal or soundcheck.
If I saw him on a downtown stage, I wouldn’t recognize him. But I won’t forget
what he stood for – or stood on, and
now it’s my balcony that beckons. I’ll wave, say a few words, and drape a flag from
it as soon as I learn how to get past the gate.